"Useless," Sherlock snarled from the couch.

"What was that?" asked John.

"Nothing," said Sherlock, snapping the laptop shut and tossing it on the floor with unnecessary force.

It was clearly a lie, but Sherlock typically lied for good reason. John decided he was happier not knowing what Sherlock had been looking up. He went back to the (throughly disappointing) newspaper. Not a single murder - not human, anyway. A dog had gotten hit on the highway yesterday, but even John thought that was boring.

Sherlock came crashing into the flat. John nearly spilled his mug of tea.

Sherlock never crashed anywhere. He stomped, he snuck, he sauntered, but crashing was not in his repertoire. He definitely crashed his way in today, though. John heard the key fumble in the lock, almost snapping off before catching. The front door flew open and slammed against the opposing wall hard enough to close it again. Uneven footsteps on the stairs, then the door to 221B opened, leaving dent in the drywall opposite, as Sherlock stood in the doorway and kicked his shoes across the room with enough force to throw him off his balance. He tumbled forward and caught himself on his elbows, then growled at the floor as though it had deeply offended him. He then took to walking back and forth across the room, almost running, really, pausing only to dump stacks of paper from tabletops to floors.

Sherlock was in rough shape. His hair was so tangled it stood out from his skull like dandelion fluff, and his clothes were ripped and missing buttons and zippers. They were the same clothes he had been wearing the day before, so he hadn't slept all night, but John had been able to tell that already - he hadn't come home last night, after all.

"What happened to you?" The question was out of John's mouth before he could stop it.

Sherlock just waved his hand dismissively. "Nothing, a scanner," he snapped.

"Okay." John paused, opened his mouth, then closed it again. His throat was dry. He took a sip of tea and tried again.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock whirled around, faster than usual in sock feet, and pinned John to the wall with a glare. "What?"

"What's the matter with you?" The words came out more bluntly than he had expected, but Sherlock only snarled again and resumed his pacing.

"It isn't what's wrong with me, it's what's wrong with the entire scientific world. Failing after failing. I am in awe at the sheer number of absolute idiots in the world."

John almost laughed. "And what's wrong with the entire scientific world?"

"Not one researcher, John! Not one! Anywhere! Not even using Mycroft's security clearance, which was not bloody easy to steal and proved to be totally useless!"

"Not one researcher doing what?"

"Asking the right questions, John! It's all here's what happens and segments of brain and effects of dopamine and norepinephrine. That's all well and fine for the diagnosis stage, but nobody cares about how or why or how to make it happen! There's no cure! No treatment! No nothing!"

"How to make what happen? Sherlock, are you sick?"

Sherlock suddenly stopped short. He turned to glare at John again, before stalking off to his room and striking up a chorus of crashing glass.

So much for those new test tubes Sherlock had ordered. John sighed as he went down to make sure the front door was closed. It wasn't quite, and John noticed as he closed it that Sherlock had left the key in the lock. John took it out and wondered why he had been using the spare key.

"Mr. Holmes."

"Yes?"

"There has been a breach of security. Yesterday, Sherlock Holmes used your security clearance to gain access to the experiments being done in three of the top organizations studying human psychology and brain development."

"Ah. And which experiments were targeted?"

"The Effects of Dopamine and Norepinephrine on the Human Brain; Neuroimaging of the Brain's Emotional Centres, focus on Affection, Guilt, and Nervousness; Chemical Interactions Forming Complex Emotions, focus on Affection, Empathy and Happiness; Combination of Emotional States Typically Referred to as Love; and Long Term Psychological Effects of Love."

"And after gaining access to the results of these studies?"

"Sherlock Holmes then broke into Saint Joseph's Hospital and put himself through the CTG scanner before attempting to put himself through the MRI scanner."

"Attempting?"

"He was quite agitated, and apparently forgot about the magnetic aspect of the Magnetic Resonance Imaging scan, as well as the keys, zippers, buttons and various other metal objets on his person at the time. He got stuck inside the machine, and was forced to wait until the security guard found him at around four o'clock this morning. He was then brought in for questioning by Detective-Inspector Lestrade and released with a warning. He is currently at his residence in 221B Baker Street."

"Excellent. Apologize formally to Saint Joseph's on my brother's behalf, and offer to pay in full for any damage done to either of the machines, as well as any other property that may have been damaged. Ensure my security clearance is out of his hands, and arrange for Detective Inspector Lestrade to have an extra two weeks of vacation time."

"Yes, sir."

Sherlock was being as insufferable as ever.

This would normally have been comforting to John, but Sherlock was acting the same way he did on a case, and there was no case, as far as John could see. He was fairly certain that Sherlock hadn't slept for four days straight, though, since John had walked out of his room one morning to find the detective asleep on the staircase leading to the upstairs bedroom. He ate absolutely nothing if left alone, and had actually fainted after three days of no sleep and no food. Sherlock would eat anything John made for him, though, so the amount of takeaways fell off significantly and John slowly became a much better cook (this process was made easier by the fact that Sherlock did eat anything John made, including the solid brick of spaghetti that they had had to chisel off the bottom of the pot, and then cut with steak knives to eat). John had tried to get Sherlock to sleep, too, but Sherlock only pretended to sleep as long as John was watching him, and then got up again. John sat watching for three hours once, hoping Sherlock would fall asleep, but as soon as he had left the room Sherlock was up again. He gave up on trying to get Sherlock to sleep after that.

Sherlock had also almost completely quit speaking. He only answered direct questions, and with the most succinct answer possible. He was also playing his violin a lot, so often that John thought he would have to replace his bow soon, but he played only one song, the same one, over and over. Sherlock never did that; more often than not, it took considerable coaxing to convince him to play a proper song at all.

John used to like Moonlight Sonata, because it reminded him of Sherlock, but four days of repetition had cured him of the preference.

John liked Moonlight Sonata. Sherlock knew that much. Now the only question was why.

Sherlock played Moonlight Sonata again and again, until he could play without thinking about the notes or his fingers, but he still couldn't figure out what John heard in the notes to make him prefer that song to all the others.

He played it anyway. It was imperative that he figure it out. If he could figure out why John liked this song more than other songs, maybe it would give him things to introduce into his own character that would ensure John liked him more than other people.

Okay, it was a long shot, but it was the only lead he had. His research had effectively proved that he was in love with John, and after the disaster with the MRI machine he had given up on finding a cure. The CAT scan hadn't given him anything conclusive to work with, anyway.

He had to work quickly, too. It was annoying to not be able to think out loud, but John couldn't find out what he was thinking about. He was already suspicious about Sherlock's repeated Beethoven performances.

Sherlock was also beginning to feel oddly as though he were coming apart at the seams. He had noticed new oddities, small spots of insanity, popping up within him. He didn't eat or sleep, as per his usual routine with cases, but this was not a usual case and was taking him an extraordinarily long time. He had passed out after three days, and it had been worth it when John had cooked him a batch of (oily, oversalted) chicken soup. He didn't want to eat, the food wasn't even any good, but John had cooked it. Sherlock couldn't resist eating the soup or anything else John cooked, a weakness he deeply regretted the first time John made spaghetti.

Sleeping was the worst. He didn't sleep, of course, but had taken to watching John sleep from the steps leading up to his room, a habit which had gone undetected until he had somehow managed to fall asleep there (he had been thinking about what it would be like to sleep with John, not have sex but to actually sleep, under warm blankets with his arms wrapped around John, matching his breaths to John's deep peaceful ones and letting them carry him away). John had attempted to force him to sleep a few times, but Sherlock couldn't very well be expected to relax, not with John sitting there watching him. He was aware of his own breaths, and John's, every movement in the room, even everything going on outside the window, and there was no way he could fall asleep.

Coming apart at the seams, truly.